Furyborn

by Claire Legrand

  “I think,” said Navi slowly, “that if the Blood Queen had lived, she would have become something more powerful than even the angels, with all their millennia of knowledge, could have comprehended.”

  Eliana pushed herself off the tree, no longer able to stand there and listen to Remy’s voice grow more and more excited, as if this Princess Navana were some dear friend of his, as if he didn’t care that Eliana waited in the shadows, ready to slit any strange throats that might happen by.

  And would he rather I stand idly and watch him get torn to pieces the next time we’re attacked?

  She knew what he would say: Yes.

  The fool.

  Because at least then I wouldn’t be killing. Is that right, dearest brother?

  “Do you like writing stories?” Remy asked.

  “I like telling stories others have written,” Navi answered. “Stories about Astavar most of all.”

  Remy hesitated. Then, shyly, “Will you tell me one?”

  Eliana dared to look back at them. Remy had wedged himself against Navi’s side in the bracken, their backs against a felled watchtower tree, his head tucked under hers. The girl was stroking his shaggy hair, slow and soft, and when she caught Eliana staring, the expression she wore was one of such compassion that Eliana fantasized, for an immensely satisfying moment, about stalking over and striking her square in the jaw.

  She turned away, toward Simon—

  But he was gone.

  She froze. Fear carved her chest into ribbons.

  “I certainly will share a story with you, and I’m honored that a wordsmith like you would ask,” Navi replied. “You know, of course, that the patron saint of Astavar is—”

  “Tameryn the Cunning,” Remy said, his voice lighting up. “She was a shadowcaster. I read that she slept under the stars with her black leopard for a pillow.”

  “And did you also read,” Navi said, “that shadows grew out of her scalp instead of hair? Her favorite comb was coated in crushed black pearls and carved from the bones of a wolf who died saving her life when she was a girl.”

  “I don’t know that story,” Remy whispered, awestruck.

  Eliana crept away from them, their murmured voices following her into the morning air like an unfamiliar lullaby. Daggers out, she circled the tree under which Simon had been standing. Gone.

  She supposed he could be relieving himself somewhere, but the unease inching up her torso said otherwise.

  Ducking underneath a drooping oak branch, using Whistler’s blade to part a curtain of hanging moss, Eliana knew she was moving too far away from camp, that she shouldn’t leave Navi, Remy, and the horses untended, but without Simon, they were all lost. They’d get turned around in these swamp-riddled forests faster than—

  A shift in the air, slight but undeniable.

  Someone was near.

  Eliana crouched in the shadow of a gemma tree, searching the forest.

  Then something cold pricked the side of her neck.

  “Give me a reason to kill you,” came a woman’s voice, vicious and made of gravel, “and I’ll do it.”

  Eliana pressed her neck harder against the woman’s knife, felt the blade’s tip sink into her flesh. The pain thrilled her. I am here, it said, and I do not run from death.

  I seek it out.

  She laughed. “You’d die trying, I’m afraid.”

  The woman made a scornful noise. “Unlikely,” she spat out, and then brought the hilt of her knife down hard against Eliana’s head.

  15

  Rielle

  “I no longer have a name. I relinquish my casting to its destruction and forsake the magic with which I was born. I dedicate my mind and body to the guidance of the Church and the study of the empirium. I no longer have a name. I am only the Archon.”

  —Traditional induction vow of the Archon, leader of the Church of Celdaria

  The voice followed Rielle back into the waking world, companionable and silent.

  Strange, that a voice could be silent. If it wasn’t speaking, yet Rielle could sense it beside her, then it wasn’t merely a voice.

  It belonged to someone—a body, a person—and whoever it was, they were close.

  Who are you? She hoped the voice could hear—and that it couldn’t. Had she gone mad?

  Gently teasing, the voice answered, I suppose I’ll tell you now. You deserve it, Rielle. You escaped the mountain after all.

  A smile crept across her lips. Before, the voice had sounded vague, undecipherable. But now…

  You’re a man.

  Mmm. An affirmative, soft and playful. Almost purring.

  Rielle’s smile grew, heat climbing up her cheeks.

  Do you have a name? she asked.

  Of course.

  And then Rielle felt eyes upon her, though she could see nothing but the churning velvet black of her awakening mind.

  Cool fingers touched her wrist.

  Rielle stirred. Shifted.

  Tell me? Her voice held an unfamiliar coy lilt. She had spent her childhood cautiously flirting with Tal, with Ludivine, even daring to with Audric from time to time, but this felt different. New—and immense.

  Please?

  The voice took a slow breath in, then blew an even slower breath out—a content, sated sound. Not quite a groan; not quite a sigh.

  Rielle’s skin prickled, warming.

  My name, said the voice, lips grazing the curve of her ear, is Corien.

  • • •

  “Lady Rielle, you’re awake. And quite pleased with yourself, it seems.”

  Rielle’s eyes flew open.

  A wall of windows framed with drapes in the colors of House Courverie admitted afternoon light. The painted ceiling above her, bordered with gilded molding, displayed Queen Katell in all her glory. First as a young acolyte in the Celdarian heartlands; then as Saint Katell, driving the angels through the Gate; and lastly, crowned and robed, the first queen of Celdaria.

  Across from Rielle sat the Archon. His eyes fixed on Rielle, mildly curious.

  Behind him stood ten members of the holy guard. The seven temple sigils decorated their gleaming gold armor, echoing the sigils sewn into the Archon’s robes. The holy guard owed no sense of allegiance to Lord Commander Dardenne, the kingsguard, the city guard; they belonged only to the Archon and the Church.

  Ignoring the anxiety nipping up her arms, Rielle sat up and fixed the Archon with a look she hoped was as infuriatingly untroubled as his own.

  “I am indeed pleased, Your Holiness,” she said, smiling, “for it seems I’ve successfully completed the first of my trials. If you had stopped an avalanche using only your two hands and the determination of your will, surely you would be proud of yourself as well?”

  She paused. Would this be too much?

  She couldn’t resist.

  “But then,” she said, watching the Archon’s face, “it would be difficult for you to imagine such a thing, since you’ve given up all rights to your magic. And, even before you did, you had to use a casting to access your power. I am burdened by no such constraints.”

  The Archon sat unblinking, his smile small and tight.

  Rielle did not break her stare.

  Good, said Corien. Make him sweat.

  A door in the wall to Rielle’s right opened, admitting one of King Bastien’s pages. “His Majesty is ready for you, Your Holiness.”

  “Excellent.” The Archon rose. “Lady Dardenne, follow me.”

  Rielle obeyed, the holy guard forming a loose circle around her as she walked.

  Do they really think I’ll lose all sense of reason and kill everyone in my sight? she thought darkly.

  Some do, said Corien.

  Something about his tone of voice—of thought?—startled Rielle. You’re not just saying that. You know what the
y think.

  Silence, then.

  Corien? Suddenly her heart was a rolling drum in her chest. The impossibility of what was happening felt abruptly, terribly clear. She was talking to a voice in her head, as if this were a normal thing, and had so easily fallen into doing so that already it felt like a long-formed habit.

  That was…not good.

  The truth returned to her: mind-speak was something the angels once did.

  Repulsed—by herself or by the idea of Corien, Rielle couldn’t decide—she imagined stepping away from him, shutting herself behind a door, and turning the key.

  What are you not telling me? she whispered against the lock.

  Corien’s voice came thin and cold: Pay attention, Rielle. Your jailers await.

  “Lady Rielle,” came the voice of King Bastien, pleasantly enough. “You look well, all things considered.”

  Rielle blinked twice, coming back to herself. She stood before a long rectangular table of polished wood. Framed portraits of kings and queens of the Courverie line adorned the far wall. To her right, a wide spread of windows opened to a sun-soaked veranda.

  This was the king’s Council Hall, where his Privy Council met.

  And there was the king himself, with his closest advisers: Queen Genoveve beside him, staring at Rielle over the rim of her wine goblet. The Lady of Coin and the Lord of Letters. The judges of the High Court, appointed by the king.

  Grand Magister Florimond, the most powerful earthshaker in Celdaria. The woman who had engineered the avalanche.

  And Rielle’s father, his face drawn and unreadable.

  She had not embraced him for years, yet now, oddly, she found herself craving it.

  But only for a moment.

  She raised a cool eyebrow at him and bowed. She caught sight of her ruined boots and realized she was still wearing the clothes from the mountain. Her body chose that moment to make itself known—every scrape and sprain, every bruise. Her wounds sparked equal parts pain and triumphant pleasure.

  She had fought the mountain and won.

  She straightened once more, pain blooming in her sore shoulders.

  “Thank you for saying so, Your Majesty,” she said. “My queen. My lord father. Grand Magister. I am glad to see you all well.”

  “And we are glad to see you well, Lady Dardenne,” King Bastien replied.

  “Are you?”

  Her father’s head snapped around to glare at her.

  A throaty chuckle sounded in Rielle’s mind. Darling girl.

  Rielle bit the inside of her lower lip. “Forgive me, my king. That was insolent of me.”

  “And was it not also insolent,” murmured Queen Genoveve, “to spend your days endangering my son and niece, without a care as to their safety?”

  Rielle stepped forward, outrage spiking in her chest. As one, the kingsguard surrounding the room and the holy guard at the Archon’s side shifted, hands at their swords.

  She set her jaw and stood her ground. “My queen, I love your son and niece more than anyone in this world. If you think I’ve spent one moment of my life without thinking of their safety, you are gravely—”

  The slam of a door cut her off. Rielle turned to see Audric striding toward her, dark curls falling over his forehead in disarray and Ludivine just behind him.

  A wave of such relief washed over Rielle that she had to touch the king’s table for support.

  Then Audric was there, gathering her into his arms. Against her matted, mud-crusted hair, he whispered, “Rielle, they wouldn’t let us see you.”

  Tucked safely beneath Audric’s chin, Rielle let her eyes fall closed and breathed in his familiar sunspinner scent—the steady warmth of sunbaked stone. “And yet here you are.”

  “You’re all right?” Audric pulled away, searching her face. “What happened?”

  “I successfully completed the earth trial,” Rielle answered, unable to stifle a broad smile as she looked up at him. “Only six more remain.”

  At Audric’s elbow, Ludivine beamed. “Oh, Rielle, that’s wonderful.”

  “Yes, Grand Magister Florimond and her acolytes created an avalanche,” added the Archon, “intended to kill Lady Rielle. Obviously it did not. To our great relief.” He paused. “And to your even greater relief, it seems, my prince.”

  Rielle’s cheeks burned, but when she looked past Audric to meet Ludivine’s gaze, she saw nothing but love and a warm smile.

  Audric stepped away from Rielle. “My lord Archon, you mock the life and safety of our Sun Queen? Please, help me understand that. It seems disrespectful at best and blasphemous at worst.”

  “May I remind you, my son,” said Queen Genoveve, “that Lady Rielle has completed only one of seven trials. And it is not for you to determine whether or not she is the Sun Queen.”

  Audric’s eyes shone, his shoulders square. “She will not merely complete the trials; she will transcend them.”

  The Archon sniffed. “On what do you base this faith?”

  “I’ve known her all my life—”

  “You have known a lie.”

  “That’s enough.” King Bastien clasped his hands on the table. “We’re not here to argue about the past. We’re here to discuss the future.”

  “You’re right, Father,” said Audric, approaching him. “Don’t make Lady Rielle complete the rest of these trials alone and unprepared.” He looked back at Rielle, his expression alight with conviction and belief. Belief in her. “She should complete the trials in front of as many people as possible.”

  “It should be a spectacle,” Grand Magister Florimond agreed, leaning forward to face the king. She was a stout, short woman with ruddy skin and thick brown hair in a crown of braids on her head. “The things Lady Rielle accomplished on that mountain…” She shook her head, glanced at Rielle. “These are things the people need to see.”

  Rielle felt a flutter of delight at Magister Florimond’s awed expression. “Why?”

  Magister Florimond opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated and glanced at Audric instead.

  “Because,” Audric said, watching his father, “when the Gate falls and the angels return, the Sun Queen will need the support of the Celdarian people at her back. They need to see her work. They need to love her.”

  The judges, the Lord of Letters and the Lady of Coin, even the queen, shifted uneasily, as did some of the guards stationed around the room.

  Rielle looked to her father. At last, he returned her gaze. She wondered if he was remembering the same thing she was: secret evenings in Tal’s office after a day of lessons, Rielle on her father’s knee and slowly reading the words of Aryava’s prophecy aloud:

  Two Queens will rise.

  One of blood.

  One of light.

  She had been young enough then, and perhaps not yet frightening enough, that her father still touched her with something like affection.

  “Audric,” said King Bastien tightly, “I would ask you not to speak of such things right now.”

  “But it’s precisely now that we must speak of these things.” Audric’s voice was taking on that earnest, gruff quality it had whenever he went off on one of what Rielle and Ludivine called his scholarly fits.

  Despite everything, Rielle glanced sidelong at Ludivine, who was stifling her own smile.

  “Princess Runa’s death,” Audric continued. “The slave uprisings in Kirvaya. The unprecedented storms across the ocean, in Meridian and Ventera. The shifting mountains in the old angelic lands, displacing entire villages overnight. And now,” he said, looking back at Rielle, “there’s Lady Rielle. Maybe those assassins knew something we didn’t, and their attempt to kill me was really an attempt to draw out her power for all to see. Or maybe it was simply coincidence. Either way, we cannot ignore the timing of these events.”

  Audric returned his impassioned
gaze to the king. “The angel Aryava knew, centuries ago. He warned us of this time, and now it is upon us.”

  King Bastien’s normally open expression was a barred door. “That’s enough, Audric.”

  “Father, we ignore the signs at our peril—”

  The king rose to his feet. “That’s enough!”

  Audric stepped back, meeting his father’s glare for one searing moment before looking at the floor.

  The Archon cleared his throat. “Perhaps there is some wisdom to the prince’s suggestions. Whether or not the prophecy’s events are unfolding before us, if Lady Rielle is forced to complete the trials in plain view of the Celdarian people—”

  “Then the challenge will be even greater for me,” Rielle interrupted. “And you will know I am not to be feared.” She took Audric’s place before his father, her heart pounding fast and sure. “For I’ll be not only fighting for my life, but for theirs as well.”

  “That,” said King Bastien, “is a terrible risk.”

  Queen Genoveve set down her goblet with some force. “A risk we cannot take. My love, this is nonsense.”

  “The city guard,” Rielle insisted, “the royal guard, the holy guard, every acolyte from the temples. All of them can be on alert, ready in case I falter.” She took a deep breath. “But I won’t falter. I’ve been taught well by my father and by Tal.”

  “Taught while hidden within secrets and lies,” the Archon added.

  Rielle ignored him. “They can continue my lessons, with the help of everyone on the Magisterial Council.”

  She glanced at Grand Magister Florimond. The woman inclined her head. “I, for one, will be glad to help Lady Rielle in this.”

  Rielle gave her a small smile. “Word will get out, my king, about the trials. About me. Too many people know what’s happening for rumors not to escape. Think about how our people will react if they find you’ve been keeping such a secret from them. Enough lies have been told, enough secrets kept. I had a part in that, and I don’t wish to any longer.”

  King Bastien returned to his seat, considering her in silence.

  “If we tell the people everything…” Audric added, coming to stand beside her.